


And it's enough

by ella1673



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (but by fluffy, (yes, Angst, BUT BARE WITH IT!, Fluff, Hope you enjoy, I do mean my own..., M/M, Post-Reichanbach, Post-Reichanbach reunion, Reunion, Special, and again, because I didn't actually tag that., brand of fluff), but who's checking!), but you know, it gets fluffy!, just the last two tags amalgomated, never too sure about my writing skill, oh and, right - Freeform, so it starts a little angsty, so this is probs not for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ella1673/pseuds/ella1673
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John awoke early and for a moment wondered why the empty space beside him on the bed felt so wrong again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And it's enough

John awoke early and for a moment wondered why the empty space beside him on the bed felt so wrong again. His fingers reached out and twisted with the smooth sheets, the ache inside his chest alight with pain. The soft numbness of sleep still clinging to him stopped him remembering why all his good work, all those careful hours consigning the pain to a gentle ache, were ruined.

Sherlock was gone. He always will be. John had felt the paperness of skin without a heartbeat when he had pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist before he was pulled away. Seen the blood leaking from his skull (irreparable frontal cortex damage, probably shattered skull). There was no use his heart trying desperately to bring him back.

So there was no point in feeling the ache, the guilt, the want back again, curled up like a drowsy dragon sitting around the treasure of his heart.

Delicate fingers against his ribs, downy curls in his hands, lips against his face, neck, whispered words of comfort, of belief. He was here. He was home.

John’s throat constricted, dried out. Inside his eyes, tiny pins pricked out tears and he felt them well up. Of course he wasn’t home. Sherlock could never come home again. John could never tell him the truth, never love him again.

He still remembered Mary’s words as she finally gave up and slammed the door for the last time “Maybe if I wasn’t the third most important person in this marriage!”.

It was true. John had stopped lying to himself. But then, the dreams just hurt the more. He closed his eyes against the brightening day, (funny, he could have sworn he’d left the curtains open…) the light just hurt his eyes and made the dream ache even more. They normally never hurt this much, not any more. And it hadn’t even been one of the better dreams, where the endings always ended up with Sherlock blessed out, being slowly taken apart till all he could mutter was incoherable words and all he could do was let John take him. This was positively PG rated.

As sleep slowly lost its hold on John, somewhere within the deepest recesses of his brain, he realised that there was the gorgeous smell of toasting bread. A smell that hadn’t been there since Mary had left him.

“I’m here John, I’m so sorry. But I’m home. I’m here. I love you John, don’t leave me. I’m here.”

He sat up. He gasped, a headache pounding suddenly through his head that, for a moment, made him question whether he was still dreaming. But the smell was still there.

He gingerly got out of the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of an incredible tenderness at the upper-right side of the back of his head.

He opened the door, just as a sizzle zipped through the air and the undeniable aroma of cooking bacon greeted his nostrils.

But he couldn’t believe it. Not yet.

He shuffled across the landing and pushed open the kitchen door.

And there he was. His soft curls still quite short and his frame recognisably thinner underneath his shirt.

Sherlock moved around the kitchen as he remembered, multi-tasking in a way that seemed so unrecognisable to John.

“Sherlock…” he whispered and the genius turned and was back by his side before the word was truly out. One bony arm wrapped itself around John’s waist, while butterfly touches ghosted over his head

“Shhh, John. You shouldn’t be out of bed. You had quite a knock, bit of blood. Almost took you to hospital.” it’s said so soft and so gentle and John closes his eyes and leans against the thin man’s chest like it’s his salvation

“You’re home.” he whispers and he’s shocked by how childishly needy it sounds

“Of course I’m home, darling. I came back to you.”

“But you left” John muttered, feeling Sherlock’s arms wrap around him like he a parcel and Sherlock fancy tissue paper.

“And I won’t leave you again.” it’s a promise. John knows it is. He leans up and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s.

There’s a pause, then Sherlock leans down and kisses him like a damn movie heroine. As John tries to lean in for more, Sherlock pushes him back to the sitting room and pushes him onto the sofa, then places a blanket on him.

“Wait.” Sherlock tells him, then goes off and boils the kettle. John nearly laughs at the way Sherlock ticks boxes as he cares for John.

Sherlock smoothly serves the breakfast onto one plate and places it next to John, before leaving to make the tea.

John waits till Sherlock is back, before tucking in. It’s surprisingly delicious. Sherlock’s eyes never leave him.

“Mary was pregnant when she left you.” is a statement, abruptly and deliciously reminding John of the Sherlock he remembered

“Yes. It’s a-

“Girl.” Sherlock barely waited for John’s affirmative nod “What’s her name?”

“Elysia.” he said. Sherlock pauses, then smiles.

“Yorkshire case.” he said, a statement that hides the question. It shocks John how fragile Sherlock still is

“Yes.” John said and he looked back up into Sherlock’s eyes. He watched Sherlock watch him, marvelled at the green and the grey and the streaks of blue and brown that swirled around the iris. It reminded John of the times Mary made him watch Doctor Who and the tardis flew through the time vortex. John pondered if he leaned in close enough he could see the little blue box.

He felt the ground shift a little underneath him (maybe he was in the tardis inside Sherlock’s eyes) and more a moment things flickered and then he was slumped, supported by Sherlock’s thin but surprisingly strong frame.

“Shhh, I think that head needs more rest.” and then he’s being manhandled upwards in a way John distinctly remembers having to do to him.

Sherlock guided his fumbling feet along the corridor and up the stairs (sure they weren’t that tall last time?) and into his room.

John felt the mattress spring up beneath him and the soft down of the sheets (not quite as soft as his curls).

He waits, he hopes.

He heard Sherlock’s footsteps walk off.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t leave me?” John said. He felt Sherlock pause, then his footsteps came back and the mattress dipped beside him and a hand rested on his waist.

“And I won’t. I didn’t realise what it would do to you. I didn’t realise. I didn’t think. But I was doing it to protect you. Because you would always have been more important to me than anything. More important than my reputation, John”

His eyes were closing, but he felt Sherlock’s fingers slide through his hair

“I wanted to protect you. So I did. I’m sorry that I hurt you. But I’ve learnt now. I won’t hurt you again. And I love you John.”

And then he fell asleep. And the dreams didn’t need to come that night.

**Author's Note:**

> LOOOOOOOK!!!!!!!! I WROTE THE CLOSEST I THINK I CAN COME TO FLUFF!!!!!!!  
> (Ashani, I do hope you appreciate this.)
> 
> Title (technically) from Flume by Bon Iver... But not really....


End file.
